It’s the dead of the offseason, that strange desert where no games are played and all we’ve got are hypotheticals and half-baked debates to keep us hydrated. So I’ve been dipping into my little treasure chest of 101 offseason questions. Last time, I ranted about the speaker system inside PHX Arena, because why not? This time, I’m wading into something a little more existential: would I still root for the Phoenix Suns if I knew with absolute certainty they’d never win a title?
Silly question, right?
Maybe. But silly questions are often the best portals into real conversations, the kind that dig under your fingernails and make you examine why you’re here in the first place.
So let’s get uncomfortably honest. Why do we watch sports? Why do we sign up for this endless loop every single year? It’s not complicated. It’s drama, pure and uncut. Some people tune into reality TV, some lean on soap operas. Me? I mainline basketball. Sports has the same beats as Hollywood. You have heroes, villains, heartbreak, and redemption. But the stakes are real, the outcomes unwritten. There’s always a winner. There’s always a loser. Every game is a story stitched together by sweat and strategy, where physical ability collides with mental willpower to see who rises and who folds.
And unlike The Real World (do they still make that show?), sports never get stale. Sitcoms recycle tropes, dramas run their arcs into the ground, reality shows eventually script their chaos. But every season of sports introduces new characters, fresh narratives, and unscripted madness. That’s the hook. That’s why we keep coming back, even if the ending, the championship parade, never arrives.
In this endless tug-of-war between winning and losing, the real magic isn’t in the scoreboard. It’s in the characters. Sports, like television, is a sprawling drama filled with arcs, betrayals, and heroes you swear by. Think of Game of Thrones. You didn’t watch it passively. You pledged allegiance. Maybe you flew the banner of House Stark because of honor, or maybe you lit the pyres with House Targaryen because you craved fire and blood. Sometimes it was the colors, sometimes the values, sometimes the chaos. But inevitably, you found yourself aligned.
That’s what fandom is. It isn’t a guarantee of victory. It’s the bond you’ve stitched with a team. When they win, you feel like you’ve been knighted in triumph. When they lose, you demand answers, dissecting the wreckage like a detective at a crime scene, searching for how it all unraveled and what might rise from the ashes next time.
So back to the question: If I knew the Phoenix Suns would never win a championship, would I still root for them?
Absolutely. Because yes, a championship is the mountaintop. The glittering prize. But to only back a team for the rings is to miss the marrow of the thing. You strip away the arcs, the gut-punch losses, the comebacks that make your blood boil, and you’re left with something sterile. Something empty.
Our reasons for fandom are as varied as fingerprints. Geography, family allegiances, or maybe because purple and orange looked damn good when you were a kid. But the connective tissue is the same: this shared, collective ride with your fellow believers. That bond doesn’t get forged in champagne parades; it’s hammered out in the trenches, in the years when the flames are low, in the nights you suffer together. That’s what makes the fire burn hotter.
Would it sting to know the Suns will never hoist the trophy? Of course. You’d question your sanity, wonder why you kept feeding your heart to something that can’t pay you back with the ultimate reward. But if the only reason you watch is for the coronation, you’re missing the essence. The tears you shed when a title comes aren’t from the trophy, they’re from the scars of every season that tried to break you. I know. I’ve felt that catharsis with the Dodgers. Ecstasy, heartbreak, rinse, repeat.
So, one last time: would I root for the Phoenix Suns knowing they’ll never win it all? I would. Because without that uncertainty, without the struggle, without the absurd maddening hope, the story collapses. And what’s sports without the story?
Silly question? Maybe. But that’s August for you.
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